Fathers and Sons
by Barbara
Summary: Sandoval thinks about his son as he makes dinner.


Fathers and Sons

By Barbara

Disclaimer:  They ain't mine.  I wish they were, but they belong to someone else.

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The kitchen glowed with welcoming light.  From Sandoval's position on the couch, he could see the reflected light from the kitchen in the dining area.  It beckoned him to forget his troubles in the simple preparation of a meal. It enticed him with the prospect of forgetting about the Taelons and Kincaid's unknown agenda for a few minutes. 

After the day Sandoval had had, he needed to relax.  He got up and headed towards the kitchen.  It promised to be a safe haven.  The wood paneling on the cabinets gleamed without nicks or cuts.  The gas stove beckoned enticingly. The shelves were full of _gadgets, as Dee Dee had called them.  These gadgets let him slice fruit easily or make jams or make his own pasta.  He had always loved cooking, loved the gadgetry of cooking.  He had been the one to prepare the meals during their marriage._

Starting when he was young he had always loved to cook.  The MI had repressed those desires until its disintegration.  Cooking was an inefficient use of time- time that could be better spent serving the Taelons.  It was more _efficient to purchase takeout or ready-to-go meals rather than cook a meal from starting scratch with fresh fruits and vegetables.  That was one of the things he had hated most about the MI._

Now that the MI was gone, he cooked as often as he could.  It was a reminder of his life before the Taelons- a reminder that not everything he knew hurt people.  But every day, as he cooked, he was reminded of his son.  His own father-son cooking experiences had been such a part of his life growing up, he couldn't cook without thinking of his father, now dead these last ten years, which in turn led to thinking about his son.

He stepped into the kitchen.   It was an exceptionally large one for an apartment/condo in the D.C. area.  Builders seemed to assume that everyone would eat out, and thus installed tiny kitchens in most apartments and condos.  He had moved into the condo after sending Dee Dee to the "rest home".  Their house was sold, and he bought a condo in a security building.  As a Companion Protector, he had needed a higher level of security than he had as a simple FBI agent, something more than could be achieved with a house.   Looking around, he supposed he was lucky he had bought a condo with a large kitchen.  He wasn't sure if it was caused by his subconscious mind affecting the MI or if it was just serendipity.  Either way, he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He headed for the refrigerator, a large capacity model with lots of freezer space.  Opening the fridge, he pulled open the vegetable crisper and removed several different chili peppers and then pulled out some ginger before closing the door.  He was out of the spice paste he needed for tonight's dinner and had to make more.  He opened the pantry and removed some garlic and shallots.

As he peeled the shallots and began to dice them, his mind drifted again to his son.  It often did when he cooked.   Was his son learning to cook?  Did he know about his father's traditions and culture?  He knew nothing of his son, save that he existed.

He had looked for his son, but no DNA with a first degree match was on file.  Since most people had had their DNA registered in the last few years, it was likely his son's was registered.  Which meant that his son's DNA profile had been deliberately hidden.  Which in turn meant that those caring for his son didn't want him to know about his son, wanted to hide this son from him, in fact.  Probably because of his ties to the Taelons.  Which meant that his son's guardians were Resistance, or at least anti-Taelon.  He could only hope they weren't punishing his son for what they considered his misdeeds.

As he minced the garlic, he hoped his son's guardians cared for him and loved him.  He didn't want to imagine what fanatic Resistance members might do to the son of one of their greatest enemies.  He had seen splinter Resistance groups harm the children of Taelon employees before.  He didn't want to imagine any of what he had seen happening to his son, _his little boy.  The people who had his son didn't seem to be fanatic, though.  After all, they had sent him his son's blood to cure him.  Which in turn had informed him that he had a son.  A son the Resistance could use against him._

As he peeled and minced the ginger, he thought about his son's age, as he had many times before.  But as always, the numbers seemed contradictory.  If his son was less than four, the age he had to be to be born after Dee Dee had been removed from the picture, then him giving two pints of blood would have been very dangerous.  A child's body doesn't have that much blood to spare.  But if his son had been born prior to his marriage with Dee Dee, why had his guardians never come to him for child support, or just to inform him?  There would have been no reason to hide his parentage then.  And the child's guardians had clearly known who his father was, since they had changed his DNA in the system, presumably after Sandoval had become a Companion Protector.  It just didn't make sense!

Still none of this speculation answered the questions he hardly even dared think about.  Did his son know about him?  Know what he did for a living?  Could his son accept him, with everything he'd done?  Did he even deserve his son's acceptance?  _Could his son love him?_

He pulled out a pair of disposable gloves before starting to chop the peppers he had pulled from the refrigerator.  His father had been the one to teach him how to remove the seeds and membranes from the peppers- since those were the hottest parts.  He had taught him to protect his hands while cutting peppers.  Once, just once, he had chopped peppers without gloves and then rubbed his eyes.  He had never forgotten the pain that had caused.  His father had had to hold him under the faucet for several minutes to flush out his eyes.  

He had learned how to adjust the seasonings in a dish for different heat levels literally at his father's knee.  He longed to teach his own son all these things- how to dice peppers, how to adjust seasoning levels, everything his father had taught him about cooking.

Did his son even like spicy food?  Did he know anything about his father's heritage?  Did he know how to cook his grandfather's native dishes, the right spices and proportions?  Had anyone taught him how to pick the freshest fruits and vegetables in the grocery store?

As he continued dicing the peppers, he remembered his father's garden.  His father had grown six different varieties of peppers in the backyard.  He had also grown his own tomatoes, herbs, and several different vegetables.  He had shown him how to pick the peppers at the perfect stage of ripeness.  Before the CVI, Sandoval had grown his own peppers, tomatoes, and herbs.  The CVI had changed everything, of course.  He had tossed the herbs within a couple of days of his implantation, and had never watered the peppers or tomatoes again, allowing them to die in the garden.  He didn't have time to bother with them.  Cooking distracted from serving the Taelons.  He smiled ironically as he moved to the window to harvest some lemongrass.  One of the first things he had done as the MI had disintegrated was buy more fresh herbs.  On the window ledge in the dining room alone, he had four types of mint, three varieties of basil, lemongrass, and cilantro.  He wondered if his son had even grown plants?  Did he know how to pinch the leaves to make the plants bushy, to remove the flowers from the basil to prolong its productivity? 

He wished with all his heart that he knew his son.  There was so much he wanted to teach him.  As he pulled out a tomato and chopped it after dicing the lemongrass, he thought of the peppers he had diced earlier and of the pepper plants growing in the guest bedroom window.  The condo didn't have a balcony- too difficult to secure- so he had improvised on plant placement.  There were four different pepper plants crowded onto the window sill, but none held peppers ripe enough to use.  He wanted to show his son how to check the plants for disease, for pests, how to discourage pests and disease without chemicals, when to fertilize, all things his father had shown him.  His father had taught him the importance of organic pest and disease control.  He wondered if his son even knew the difference between organic and chemical pest control, whether his son thought about the chemicals used to treat foods and the pesticides they introduced into the body.  His father had taught him a number of simple treatment methods which worked wonderfully.

As he mixed the ingredients together, he wished he could teach his son the proper proportions for spice pastes used in the Caya Islands.  He didn't need a recipe- he had learned the proper proportions at his father's knee.  He knew by sight the relative proportions of ingredients needed for the different spice pastes and yearned to teach these all important proportions to his son.

Walking back over to the fridge, he pulled out some fish and shrimp he had bought on his way home and began to clean the fish and de-shell the shrimp.  The seafood vendor near the embassy had been surprised to see him after so long.  Before the MI, he had bought his seafood from this one particular vendor he had known for many years.  The man had been surprised several months ago when Sandoval returned to his regular habit of buying fresh fish every couple of days.  After so long an absence, the man had never expected to see Sandoval again.  He had just assumed Sandoval was too busy to go that far out of his way to get really fresh fish.  Now he delighted in selling Sandoval the best fish available.  Sandoval wondered if his son knew how to pick out the freshest fish- to look for clear eyes, a clean smell.

After mixing the minced seafood with the spice paste, he pulled out several sticks of lemongrass he had bought previously.  While he preferred to use his own herbs, this recipe called for lemongrass as the skewers around which the meat paste was wrapped.  As he packed the paste around the lemongrass stalks, he remembered his father helping him pat the mix around the stalks so that it wouldn't fall off on the grill.  His father had shown him the best thickness to use to insure the meat was thoroughly cooked without burning.

His little hands had had a hard time putting enough meat on the skewers to keep from falling off.  He remembered his father handing him more meat as he struggled to get it to stay on the skewers.  So much kept falling off that they were doing this over the bowl containing the meat mixture, so any that fell off wouldn't be wasted.  His smile when he had finally got it to stay on the skewer had lit up the room.  He still remembered every minute of his cooking lessons with his father.  Because of the CVI, the memories were as clear as if they had happened yesterday.  The CVI had brought his father back into his life, and for that he was grateful.  But he knew, he would give up the clarity of these memories in an instant to have never had a CVI implanted.

He smiled sadly as he continued making the skewers.  Dee Dee had always said this recipe was best when cooking for a group, but he didn't have anyone he could or would invite over for dinner.  Before, when he had been an active FBI agent, he had invited co-workers to dinner, but he couldn't see himself inviting Kincaid to join him for a meal.  The only person he wanted to have dinner with was his son- the only person he couldn't have dinner with.

He looked sadly at the meal he was making, wishing there was someone he could share it with, and knowing there was no one he could trust with the knowledge his MI was gone- certainly not Kincaid, his agenda was too ambiguous.  Sandoval couldn't determine if he was working for or against the Taelons.  The only person he might be able to trust, wanted to trust, he didn't even know- his son.  Maybe, one day, he would be able to teach his son.  Until then all he had were the memories of his father teaching him, and trying to imagine himself doing the same.

End


End file.
